Introduction to Dehumanization

~ Taj Alexander Mahon-Haft ~

Being at the jail and then “receiving” was the most torturous time of my life, stuck in solitary for over a year. By the time I was being transferred, I was actually looking forward to prison. 

Even just the thrice daily walk fifty yards to the “chow hall”–who says that still?!–was more sun and fresh air than I’d had in what felt like forever. Of course I was terrified on one hand, but everyone at the jail spoke about how much better things are once you get to prison. So many more freedoms, they said. 

The first couple days, despite nerves, this seemed evident. Even though my muscles had atrophied and my first day on the softball field saw me trip twice on my own feet while running in the, literally, five pound plastic boots they provided, the sparse, weedy grass seemed like Camden Yards. This was more open space than I’d seen in so long!

Hence, despite the immense depression I was struggling with, a glimmer of hope shone through suggesting a better climate, if not one of Paradise. 

The outside, though, was not the big draw to me. I was stoked to have access to eventually a television, as I’d seen no news or sports for 15 months. I was eager for more options to purchase on commissary than they had at the jail. 

The biggest things were social, though. Prison would mean “contact visits,” where we get to sit at least an hour, face to face, with loved ones, bookended by hugs and kisses on both sides. 

I’m an extreme extrovert, which is why being in The Hole so long–without cause, except at the behest of prosecutors to break me– had driven me mad. I’d even contemplated suicide. 

Even with my tremendous family visiting me at the jail every chance, those visits couldn’t fill the need for love. We are, above all else, social creatures. It is social bonds that allowed us to evolve these big, rational brains, so without those connections mine lost reason.

Those visits were far better than nothing, but they were conducted over a video phone and lasted only half an hour each. Except the day of my sentencing, very, very briefly– the worst moment of my life– I had had no human contact for nearly a year and a half. No hugs, no hands held, nothing. 

Hence, one of my first priorities was figuring out how to get these visits set up. Then I knew I would feel more human again, even if they’d forced me to exchange my identity for a number.

Additionally, I am a helper, a doer, a teacher, an activist to my core. Prison was a chance, from what I’d heard, to get a job teaching and enroll in therapeutic groups to cope with these circumstances and help others do so. I knew that the chance to do this would help uplift me from my morass. 

The first few days in prison were a whirlwind of uncertainty and sporadic meetings and forms. In seeking these goals, I asked too many questions. 

I found out that we had a counselor for each floor and that they would do an intake assessment. Sweet! I thought, an actual advocate to help us navigate this process and get going. So I prepared in my mind all things I would make sure to cover first, playing out the dialogue and organizing my priorities in my head constantly. This was my big chance to make things better. 

On about my fourth or fifth day, I heard them butcher my last name. “Meh-Hahn-Taft, please go to the second floor to see your counselor.” I am used to not even close attempts, so I knew this meant me. I was sitting each day to this point, reading policies, asking more questions, already dressed as presentably as I could get. Time to do it!

With every ounce of courage and confidence I could muster, I walked upright and professionally to the door and knocked. A young woman beckoned me in without looking up from her computer, but I was undaunted. This was my first impression, and I would nail it. 

A bit of sunshine streamed in through her window as I entered, encouraging me. I’ve been good all my life with job interviews and professional discourse. I would show her right now how much of an asset I could be, offering to help in any capacity, particularly teaching. Only at the end would I ask for her help. 

With perfect posture and casual but proper diction, I smiled my most friendly, unassuming smile. Even though she was still sitting and barely looking, I stood appropriately in front of her desk, presenting every bit of humble decorum that so many years of college and grad school had taught me. I reached out my hand to shake hers, saying, “Nice to meet you, Ms. White. My name is Taj Mahon-Haft. I would love to be a resource to help other guys here gain education and opportunity. I have a teaching background.”

Silent pause. The sun beam pouring in the window passed behind a cloud. 

She looks up fully from her computer now, but not at my face. She stares at my hand. Her eyelids close slightly. Like a disgusted pit bull, her lip turns up slightly on one side. Her nostrils flare slightly, like an enraged bull. 

“Um, no,” she rasped with the distaste of someone offered maggot-infested cheese at a high end restaurant. “Just sit down,” she then muttered disdainfully, before looking back at her screen. Still no eye contact, she ignored my intro and says mechanically, “What’s your number?”

I sat, of course, and I made it through the brief meeting. All of five minutes she gave me, hurrying me out and offering more unanswers than actual facts. 

I did not respond to her rejection of a simple, polite handshake visibly, but I was devastated. She treated me as if I was a leper on fire. This is supposed to be my advocate, I thought, and I went to the room and laid down for about three days straight.